


The Gift-Wrapped Admiral

by JungleKitty



Series: Kirk/Brandt Cycle [33]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JungleKitty/pseuds/JungleKitty
Summary: It's true: Kirk really needs someone to pick out his clothes for him.
Relationships: Kirk/Brandt
Series: Kirk/Brandt Cycle [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524224





	The Gift-Wrapped Admiral

**Author's Note:**

> (c) 1999 Jungle Kitty. Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
> 
> This story is one in a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt, and takes place between the Five-Year Mission and Star Trek: The Motion Picture (2269-2271). It is #29 in the series.

"Come on, Jack! Easy out!" Brandt bellowed as she leaned over the railing that separated the front row of the bleachers from the playing field.

Blinking into the bright sunlight, she watched her first officer as he assumed a threatening stance on the pitcher's mound. Turning her focus to the batter, she noted that the young woman's determined posture was less than convincing.

*You should be scared, you little plebe,* she thought maliciously. *Jack made Amateur Galactic All-Stars three years running.*

After staring down the batter in a way that warmed the cockles of Brandt's competitive heart, Wallis shot a lightning-fast curve ball across the plate.

"Strike three!" the robo-ump blared.

The players retired from the field and the spectators rose for the seventh inning stretch. As Brandt was inharmoniously warbling "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," she was joined by Captain Figueroa, who was carrying two cups of beer. Much to the satisfaction of those nearby, Brandt stopped singing and relieved her friend of a beer.

"Thanks," she said as she sat down and took a long swallow. "What took you so long?"

"They ran out of popcorn," Fig replied, pressing the chilled cup to her forehead. "I had to authorize transferring my surplus to the Academy recreational department."

"It's tough being a sector commander, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah. So how are we doing?"

"Starfleet 7, Academy 6." Brandt chuckled spitefully. "We're whipping their firm, young butts."

"Suzanne, remember when we were cadets and how bad you felt when the senior Fleet whipped your firm, young butt in this game?"

"Nope. Sorry. We old folks are forgetful, you know. And we're supposed to be garrulous. Especially when we're not allowed to play."

"Oh, you poor thing!" Fig tut-tutted in mocking sympathy. "I don't know how you hold up under the numerous injustices life has heaped upon you."

"Can it, *Aubrelia.*" Brandt shot her a threatening look.

Fig chuckled, a little surprised that her deliberate baiting hadn't drawn a sharper response. She'd heard Brandt's rant about the general unfairness of life at least three times over the past week. A hotshot lieutenant had beaten her out for the catcher's position that Brandt had occupied on the Starfleet team for the past three years. That disappointment, compounded with the numerous delays in Komack's trial and the resulting extended ground assignment--well, Fig could hardly blame her for taking it out on the Academy team. And, to be honest, she had seen the Brat much crabbier during their twenty years of friendship. But not recently.

She reached into her pack and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

"Are those really necessary?" Brandt asked. "It's not like we're at Jupiter Arena."

"You watch the game your way, and I'll watch mine." Fig replied as she scanned the field and set her view on the reason for Brandt's amiability over the past months.

Admiral Kirk, clad in a gray t-shirt and body-hugging baseball pants, was standing near the dug-out, chatting with the opposition and swigging a bottle of what may or may not have been sports drink.

"You're very lucky, Suzanne," she said, adjusting the focus to better follow the line of the pinstripes. "I think Jim looks better now than he did at the Academy."

Brandt followed the direction of Fig's gaze and chortled lecherously.

"And he knows it, too."

"Why else would he wear those pants?"

At that moment, Kirk turned, saw them watching him, and winked. And when he returned to his conversation--Fig told herself she was imagining things, but knowing Jim, she was pretty sure she wasn't--his buttocks were displayed to an even better advantage.

"Can't play the game without the proper equipment," Brandt said smoothly.

"Uh huh."

"Sliding into home while wearing jeans is next to impossible, you know."

"Do tell."

"And when it comes to intimidating the opposition with your scoring capability, it never hurts to dress the part."

"We're talking about baseball, right?"

"Well...baseball as a metaphor for life in general."

"And sexual attraction specifically."

"I admit I'm pleased that Jim takes that into account when he gets dressed."

"That's why I say you're lucky. Have you ever noticed how many of the men we know don't have a clue about dressing well?"

"Yes. Why is that?"

"I have a theory," Fig said as she tied her dark hair into a topknot. "At the age when most young men are finally becoming interested in dressing attractively, our guys joined Starfleet, who gave them uniforms. They completely missed out on that phase of social development. How else do you explain the fact that every one of them has a loud Numauian shirt in his closet?"

Brandt cocked her head in Kirk's direction and held up two fingers.

"No!" Fig cried. "Two? You're kidding! I've never seen him wear one!"

"He does for about two minutes right before every poker game. Then I say, 'You're not wearing that, are you?' and it goes back in the closet."

"I'm shattered. I thought Jim was the one man in Starfleet who knew better."

"Fig, none of them know better. Any time you see one of them wearing something absolutely appalling, it's a sure sign that his wife or girlfriend is away, or they've just broken up."

"Wait a minute. Jim has always looked good, even when he didn't have you vetoing the Numauian shirt."

"Well..." Brandt smiled coyly. "He may not have mastered shirts, but he has excellent taste in pants."

"I'll say."

"Mmmmm-hmmmmm."

Brandt gazed across the field, trying to decide if she should reward Jim for his earlier triple or punish him because it wasn't a home run. Decisions, decisions...

Noting the lustful expression on her friend's face, Fig nudged Brandt in the ribs and asked, "So what are you and Jim doing for your birthday?"

"How did you know my birthday is coming up?" Brandt couldn't quite hide her pleasure that Fig had remembered.

"Umptember 17, Kyrosian date, right? This Friday. My computer automatically keeps track of all my friends' strange offworld birthdays."

"I never thought of that."

"You're not as nice as I am."

"True. It's probably why you hold the lofty position of sector commander and I'm just a records clerk."

"So how are you going to celebrate?"

"We're going dancing."

"And?"

"And that's all I'm going to tell you."

"Oh, come on, Brandt! Don't hold out on me. You've told me everything else."

"I haven't told you *everything else.*"

"You've told me enough so that I know that anything you're holding back must be mind-blowing. So spill."

"Well..." Brandt looked around carefully, leaned into Fig, and dropped her voice to an almost inaudible level. "Last night, Jim asked me what I wanted for my birthday."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him..." Brandt lowered her head and pulled the brim of her baseball cap down. "I told him..." Another cautious glance from side to side. "...I told him I want to be spanked, eaten out, and fucked six ways from Sunday."

Fig let out a low whistle.

"Well, happy birthday to *you!* Are you going to make him wear his dress uniform while he does it?"

"Fig, please." Brandt settled back into her seat and straightened her cap. "I'm not a stripes slut."

"You were when your stripes outranked his."

"I got over that."

"Right around the time Jim was promoted, as I recall."

"Don't be ridiculous. I hadn't pulled rank on him in at least--"

"Two weeks?"

"Three."

"I rest my case. So what will he be wearing on this momentous occasion?"

Brandt shrugged. "His birthday suit seems appropriate."

"Boring."

Brandt wagged her eyebrows and leered, "You haven't seen his birthday suit."

"But you have, every day for months. I would think you'd want to see him in something different."

For a brief moment, Brandt smiled wistfully.

"What?" Fig zeroed in. "What kind of costume?"

"None. Jim would never cooperate."

"Are you sure? He doesn't strike me as the inhibited type."

"No, it's... Well, a few years ago, he bought me, um, something sexy to wear and..."

"And?"

"Well, we sort of had a fight over it, and ever since then, I can't even hint about exotic clothes. He just says, 'Put on the bustier and I'll consider your request.'"

Frowning in scornful disbelief, Fig said, "So put on the bustier."

Brandt's reply was lost in the cheers as the game resumed.

***

Friday morning, Admiral Kirk strode out of his office and snapped a data wafer down on his aide's desk, saying, "Riley, send this nonsense back to the Corps of Engineers and tell them I don't want to hear from them again until they have a set of *real* specifications."

"Yes, sir. And, Admiral, Captain Figueroa is calling."

"Put her through." He returned to his office and was pleased that Riley timed the call so that Fig's face appeared on the screen just as he sat down. "Good morning, Captain."

"Good morning, Admiral."

"You better not be bowing out of next week's poker game."

"Don't worry, I'll be there. And if I were bowing out, I'd call Suzanne. She understands my priorities."

"The interior decorator?"

"He's an architect."

"Sorry."

"And speaking of Richard, I need a favor. I'm a little embarrassed to ask, but...we're old friends, right?"

Kirk's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What kind of a favor?"

"I'd like to buy him a gift, and I was hoping you could help me out."

"Help you out how?"

"Go shopping with me."

"Fig, no. Not shopping."

"Please, Jim. You have the best taste of any man I know."

"You better work on that bullshitting technique, Captain."

"Next time I'll bat my eyelashes. So will you do it?"

Kirk sighed. "All right. When?"

"Tonight? I'll pick you up at the end of shift."

"It will have to be quick. It's Suzanne's birthday, and we're going out."

"Oh, is it Suzanne's birthday? I guess I better get her a card or something."

***

Brandt leaned back in her chair while the leader of the retrieval team continued his long-winded description of their latest mission. If he didn't speed it up, she'd be stuck well into beta shift. Did the man think "debrief" was an antonym for "brief?" The assignment had been a simple extraction and recovery, for god's sake.

"Commander Goss," she interrupted. "I must compliment you on the excellent preliminary report you filed."

"Thank you, Captain," he said in a startled tone.

"I'm sure you and your team are exhausted--"

"Not at all, sir."

"--so is there anything you need to tell me that wasn't in your report? The agent met you at the appointed place and time, didn't she?"

"Yes, sir."

"You validated her identity and the information she presented?"

"Yes, sir."

"And were there any problems in recovering her? Any loose ends? Unfinished business?"

"No, sir."

"See any interesting sights on the way home?"

"Sir?"

"Did you happen to check out the new rec lounge on the Lexington?"

"Yes, sir, as a matter of fact--"

"Goss, consider yourself de-briefed."

After leaving the stupefied commander in the briefing room, she hurried to her office, intending to break all existing records for rapid-fire dictation. But before she could retrieve the template for the debrief officer's report, the computer interrupted.

"Priority message. Sector Commander's Office."

"Play it."

"Working... Meet me at Jasper's at 1800 hours. It's important. Fig out."

Brandt sighed. What was so important about a birthday drink? It would have to be a quick one. She didn't intend to delay her celebration with Jim.

***

Kirk glanced uneasily around the clothing store as Fig held up a chain-mail vest. He pulled back, hesitating to even go near the dangerous-looking garment, and she shook it impatiently. Embarrassed by the noise it made, he quickly slipped into it.

"Turn around," she said.

He obeyed, moving as carefully as possible, but still unable to completely forestall the chink-chink of the links brushing against each other.

"Uh, Fig? I don't know about this."

"Me neither." She shook her head, frowning. "It will only work if he's bare-chested and I don't think he'd like it catching in his chest hair. Too bad, though."

She sighed regretfully, pulled the vest down off his arms, and tossed it onto a rack, where it landed with a loud clank.

"No, I mean this whole gift thing. These clothes..."

"Come on, Jim, don't back out now. You promised you'd help me find something." She moved to a display of brightly colored pants.

"I was thinking of a bottle of wine or a novel," Kirk said pointedly.

"Those are so impersonal."

"They're tasteful."

"This relationship has gone beyond tasteful," she said, unfurling a pair of glossy red chaps.

"I'll say," he muttered as she turned him and pressed the almost-pants against his backside.

"This has definite possibilities," she said thoughtfully. "With some black and silver boots--"

"Look, Fig." He stepped away and faced her. "Why don't you just get him a Numauian shirt from the import shop?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Jim, you're doing me a favor, so I'll tell you a secret. Women hate those shirts."

"That's not a secret. But men love them. And isn't a gift supposed to give pleasure to the recipient?"

"Not if I'm going to be embarrassed being seen with him while he's wearing it."

She draped the chaps over one arm and began working her way through a rack of extremely small briefs.

"And you're not going to be embarrassed by *that*?" He recoiled from the tiger-stripe jock strap that dangled ominously from her fingertips.

"This may be more than you want to know," she said as she stretched it against her hands, "but I've taken him places where I would be embarrassed if he wasn't wearing something like this."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

"What places?"

"The Spyglass."

Kirk took a beat before responding. He'd heard of the notorious nightspot and toyed with the notion of coaxing Brandt into a little exhibitionism, but he saw no reason to share that with Fig. But still, he was a little surprised that she had tossed out that bit of information so casually. Although the Spyglass wasn't off-limits, it was hardly considered a suitable after-hours retreat for Fleet personnel.

"I didn't hear that, Captain." He turned away and began sorting through a rack of trousers.

"Of course, Admiral." She pursed her lips in a mischievous smile. "But I must say you surprise me, Jim. I heard that you and Gary were among the founding members of the CNB Scene on Ormandu."

"Sorry, Fig, I can't hear you over these pants." He held up a pair of purple drainies that sported ball fringe around the hips and down the side seams.

"Ack!" Fig blanched painfully, pleading, "Put them back! Please!"

She turned away and began examining the flashy wares under a sign that read "New from Cathouse Fantasies." Every few seconds, she furtively glanced back at Kirk, who was exploring one of the less vulgar displays. When he held up a pair of scintillating lightweight trousers, she moved in swiftly, her voice bright and excited.

"Oh! Those are phenomenal!" She rubbed the dark fabric between her fingertips. "Yesssss. Now let's see--" She seized a matching short-waisted jacket. "This is good. This will work. And finally...something simple and classic to set it off--" She hurried to a counter stacked with white ribbed tank tops. "Perfect!" She whirled toward Kirk and tossed the garments into his arms. "I told you that you had great taste." Leading him in the direction of the fitting room, she gushed, "They'll look wonderful on you."

"On me? Wait a minute--"

"Richard's built a lot like you. I want to see how they look before I buy them." She pushed him through the doorway, saying, "I'll be back in a minute. I want to see what kind of jewelry they have."

***

Brandt drummed her fingers against the table and looked at the chron over the bar. 1810. She decided to give Fig three more minutes and then--

She looked out the window and saw her friend careen around the corner and slam into the cafe.

"Let's go," Fig ordered as she pushed past the barbot.

"I thought we were having a drink--"

"No time for that."

"But I already ordered--"

The barbot slipped smoothly between them and set down a Manhattan and a Rigellian Kickoff.

"Put them on my tab," Fig said.

"Yes, Captain Figueroa," the barbot chirped and slid away.

Fig pushed the Manhattan toward Brandt, raised the Kickoff and said, "Knock it back, slugger. Happy birthday."

She downed her drink quickly and was pleased to see Brandt do the same.

"Good." Fig grabbed Brandt's hand and pulled her away from the table. "Let's go."

"Fig, what's the rush!"

"Come on! I've got a present for you and it won't keep for long."

***

Kirk surveyed his reflection in the mirror, frowning thoughtfully. Maybe he should come back alone sometime and get something like this for himself. After all, being an admiral didn't mean he had to dress like an old fogey in his off-hours. And Suzanne had been hinting that his wardrobe could use a little novelty.

But something this provocative--it would mean he had lost the Battle of the Bustier. Still...

He turned slowly, studying the man in the mirror and thinking about strategic maneuvers that weren't taught at the Academy. Then he remembered an old soldier's dictum.

*Fight the battles you can win.*

Bolstered by those words of wisdom, he stepped back and leaned against the doorway. Folding his arms across his chest, he found himself admiring the curve of his biceps. He cocked his head and was pleased at the way his face was cast in a seductive half-light. He took a step forward and felt a sleek texture brush his crotch. Reaching down, he ran his hand over his genitals. He felt them stir, and when he let go, he saw an even more dramatic play of light and shadow. His cock was more than half-hard, and he liked the way that looked. He also liked the way it felt. And the pants fit as if they agreed.

What would Suzanne do if she saw him in this outfit?

Would she melt into a puddle of desire, too stunned to take action?

Right. That sounded just like Suzanne. More likely she would ride him until she'd burned them both out like a pair of dilithium crystals at warp 10.

Or...

He winced as he considered the worst-case scenario. She might just fall down laughing, if only to get back at him for his reaction to the sight of her in a bustier. Now *that* was a purchase he regretted. Peach-colored silk trimmed with pearl buttons and lace. What had he been thinking of? Or, more to the point, *who* had he been thinking of? Some strange, different sort of Suzanne, one who gave no indication of ever springing into existence.

Resolving not to be misled by what he wanted to see, he straightened and turned a critical eye on his reflection. Was this a strange, different sort of Jim Kirk? Or was it exactly what Suzanne had been hinting at? Perhaps he was looking at this the wrong way. He would never be able to see himself as she did, but maybe she wouldn't be capable of complete objectivity, either. It was possible that she would see what she wanted to see. And if that was the case...

He looked in the mirror once again and this time, he saw a well-made man with a roguish half-smile, a man who wasn't afraid to dress his part and wouldn't hesitate to deliver on the promise displayed in black and white.

***

"Fig, this is ridiculous!" Brandt protested as Fig dragged her around the corner.

Fig stopped and turned on her, scowling with frustration.

"Suzanne, you'll love this." Her voice a threatening growl, she said through clenched teeth, "Now just close your eyes--" Her face softened to a sweet smile. "--and trust me."

"Those infamous words..." Brandt closed her eyes and felt Fig's hands resting lightly over them.

"Now move forward," Fig said. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

As they moved awkwardly along the sidewalk, Brandt asked, "Are people staring?"

"What do you care? You can't see them."

Treading as steadily as she could under Fig's impatient guidance, Brandt tried to remember what stores were on the block. Pharmacy, liquor store, men's clothing, antiques--How far had they come? She shouldn't have inhaled that Manhattan.

She heard the hiss of a door.

"Step up," Fig said. "Again. Again. Okay. Forward. Keep going. Now to the left."

"Fig, I don't think..."

"Good. Leave all the thinking to me. Now shush." Fig's voice dropped to a low whisper. "Just a couple more steps. Almost there...Stop. Now keep your eyes closed, promise?"

Brandt nodded. She heard a gentle knock and then Fig called out, "It's me! Open up."

She heard the doors open and felt Fig's hands on her shoulders urging her forward.

A sly whisper--"Happy birthday, Roomie"--the hiss of closing doors--a familiar scent--

She opened her eyes.

***

She saw the back of Jim's head, his hair catching gold and copper from lighting that seemed designed specifically for that purpose. She saw midnight-black silk loosely draped from his shoulders and cinched at the waist. She saw short sleeves, cut high and sharp, riding the tops of his arms. She saw trousers hugging his ass like the skin on two grapes. She saw her own face in the mirror, dumb-struck by the unexpected urge to scuttle respectability like an overheating warp core. She saw him watching her in the mirror as well, but before she could read his expression, he turned around and she was confronted by an image as slick and dangerous as black ice.

Two jet clasps pulled the jacket tight at the waist. It was open above them, revealing a white ribbed shirt stretching against his broad chest and bronze hair curling above the edges of the fabric. And the pants--those lightweight yet form-fitting miracles of haberdashery--the pants cupped his balls and hugged his cock in a way she'd thought only a hand could. Hell, she could practically see the veins!

As if reading her mind, his cock hardened fully and--

No. She couldn't really see veins. Could she?

He put his hands on his hips and met her eyes, his expression maddeningly nonchalant.

She wet her lips, took a step forward, and drawing a long breath that didn't quiver until the very end, she stretched out her hand.

***

Kirk smiled.

She was *ogling* him, blatantly strip-searching him with her eyes. With an unabashedly libidinous gaze, she scanned him on all frequencies, appraising him as an object of pleasure. And she liked what she saw, she didn't care who knew it, and she sure as hell wasn't laughing.

He spread his arms, his palms open and inviting.

"Yes?" he said as he shifted his weight.

Her hand froze in mid-air as she gasped a quick catch-breath.

"Oh my," she murmured.

He loved it.

***

As with many such events, it happened faster than it can be described.

He took her hand and started to say, "Come here," but her mouth met his before he could utter a syllable. He tasted the lingering flavor of liquor, its sharpness cut by an almost imperceptible touch of cherry juice.

*Jasper's*, he thought, recognizing their signature Manhattan.

Then Jasper's ceased to exist, everything ceased to exist except the tiny dressing room and the impassioned embrace that swept him up and held him captive.

Kisses piled upon kisses, deeper and longer with each wet contact. Gasping, they swung wildly between tugging on each other's clothing and slamming into full-body presses. As he pushed her tunic up, her hard nipples raked his hands. Tossing the tunic aside, he reached behind her and unclasped her bra, lifted it over her head, and twisted it around her wrists. As she struggled with the impromptu bonds, he lowered his head and rolled her nipple between his teeth. Freeing her hands, she pulled him upright and penetrated his mouth with her tongue. Reaching between them, she pulled the ribbed shirt down and exposed one of his nipples, which she pinched into a sharper peak. He felt her dancing against him and heard two dull *clunks* that confirmed his suspicion that she had prodded her boots off.

He yanked at her pants, pushing them down over her hips, and again, she wriggled desperately as she worked her way out of them. Then she opened the front of his trousers and wrapped one leg around his hips, and he felt her heat against his cock.

Leaning into her, he reached for the wall, groping for the privacy control. As he pressed it, they tumbled backwards and hit the doorway with a loud THUD!

"Sir, is everything all right?" the salesbot squeaked from the other side of the door.

Jim tore his mouth from Suzanne's and gasped, "Fine!"

"Do you require assistance?"

"No! We're fi--" Suzanne exclaimed, realizing her mistake even before Jim clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Sir? Ma'am? Sir?"

They heard Fig call, "Salesbot! I need some help over here!"

For a heart-pounding moment, they listened to the bot's indecisive twittering.

"Salesbot!" Fig barked imperiously.

Wide-eyed and tense, Jim and Suzanne waited, not moving, not even breathing until they heard the faint whir of the bot moving away.

Jim slowly lifted his hand from Suzanne's mouth and held up a finger in warning. She nodded in agreement and bit down on her lower lip as he slid down her body, covering her with a graffiti of kisses.

***

She felt his hands parting her, the hungry caress of his mouth, the first gentle tickle of his tongue. Shuddering with pleasure, she looked across the room and saw their reflection in the mirror.

A naked woman, her face contorted by passion, her nipples at attention, grasped desperately at the hair of the man who knelt on the floor before her. He was clad in darkest ebony and his head moved powerfully as he pressed deeper into her. She pushed her hips forward and he crouched lower, tonguing her from below. She reached down and pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and the muscles in his back rippled under thin cotton as he spread her legs further. Clutching at the clothing hooks on either side of the doorway, she twisted and writhed against his face. Adjusting his position once more, he lifted his head, and her eyes flashed angrily as she threw one leg over his shoulder and drove him back into place by digging her heel into his back. Then her body tensed wire-tight, her eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent moan...

As Jim's tongue flicked her over the edge of climax, Suzanne closed her eyes, knowing that if she continued to watch, she would never be able to resist the urge to cry aloud.

***

Jim stood and barely drew breath before Suzanne was on him, her feet scrabbling against the back of his thighs as she wrapped herself around him and mounted his cock. He staggered across the room and pressed her against the mirror.

At the very instant when her ass met the cold surface, momentum drove him deeply inside her and she gasped loudly.

"Shh! Shh!" he hissed.

"I know! I know!"

"SHH!"

He reinforced the command by pinching the fleshiest part of her ass. She jumped and then slid back down his cock into a even, steady ride. After only a few strokes, she buried her face against his shoulder, but made no sound. He lifted her face toward his and kissed her deeply as his cock, hard and resolute as stone, was seized in the wet grip of her orgasm. He held the kiss until he felt her hands relax against his back. Then their eyes met in a silent dare.

More? he mouthed.

She inhaled sharply and nodded just once, a quick jabbing bob of her chin.

He withdrew slowly, his cupped hands squeezing her buttocks and preventing her from following his downward movement. And when only the head of his cock remained inside her, he began teasing her, over and over, wickedly rimming her with seemingly endless forbearance.

Breathless, they held each other in a steadfast gaze, gingerly skimming the surface of desire, neither one willing to concede a need for release. Holding tight, holding on, holding back...

Then--at last--she lurched deliriously, flinging herself against him. He felt her thighs grinding into his hips as she bore down on his cock--a burst of liquid heat slithering down his cock and onto his balls--the harsh breath of her almost soundless words cooling his sweat-soaked skin--

"Oh damn damn damn--"

Her gasping curses battered his control, and as his restraint unraveled, he felt his knees buckling and heard the mournful squeal of her skin as she slid down the mirror.

With a colossal effort, he mastered himself long enough to dig his heels into the rough carpet and crush her to the glass. Then, pushing upward into her climax, he prayed to every god in the universe that Fig would keep that salesbot busy--just--long--enough--to finish! Finish! Finish!

***

Watching Brandt gather the carelessly strewn pieces of her uniform, Kirk chuckled at the mindlessly blissful smile on her face.

"What's so funny?" she asked as she dropped down on the floor beside him and began pulling on her boots.

"Nothing. It's just been a while since I saw you lit up quite so brightly." He leaned in, kissed her, and when he felt that silly smile against his lips, he returned it. "I guess we won't need any candles on your cake."

Pushing himself to his feet on legs that were reluctant to cooperate, he grunted and took a moment to steady himself.

"Ooooo," Brandt cooed happily. "And it's been a while since I saw you weaving around like the fourth day of a three-day leave. And you still haven't given me *your* present. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Were you and Fig in on this together?"

"Hell, no. I was as surprised as you were."

Pressing his palms against the mirror, he began stretching his calf muscles. After a few moments, he noticed Brandt watching him and exaggerated the pumping motion until he caught her eye.

Grinning wickedly, she quickly turned her attention to untangling the sleeves of her tunic, saying, "Don't start with me, Jim. If we stay in this room any longer, we're going to have to start paying rent."

***

Brandt stood in front of the mirror pressing the rumples in her uniform with her hands while Kirk tried to hide an incriminating stain by folding the newest additions to his wardrobe.

With a rueful shake of her head, she said, "I think this is as good as it's going to get."

"Agreed."

As they turned to the doorway, they stopped, simultaneously struck by the thought of what they might be facing on the other side.

"It probably wouldn't look right if we came out together, would it?" Kirk said.

"Very doubtful."

Squaring his shoulders, he said in his best command voice, "Cover me, Brat. I'm going in."

She nodded grimly. "I'll watch your rear, Admiral."

His heroic demeanor shattered by her horrible pun, he laughed, smacked her rear, and said, "You do that."

"And meet you at home."

He furrowed his brow, his eyes dark with suspicion.

"Just how long are you planning on staying in here?"

"I thought I'd give you a few minutes' start--"

He folded his arms sternly. "On second thought, it's probably best if we stay together. I want you right beside me when I pay for these."

"But--" She pulled away, turning red at the thought.

"Brat, being embarrassed is an old Terran birthday tradition. Among primitive societies, people are still forced to go to restaurants where strangers blow whistles, bang on drums, and sing off-key."

"But--"

He pulled her through the doorway.

"And keep blushing. It's very becoming. And it makes you look like the guilty party."

***

When they returned to the sales floor, Fig was nowhere in sight, eliminating--or at least postponing--one uncomfortable situation. However, the salesbot hurried over, all lights flashing happily.

"Did everything fit?"

"Perfectly," Kirk responded and reached for his credit wafer.

"Oh, no, sir, that won't be necessary. Ms. Figueroa paid for your purchases. And she left this for you, ma'am."

The bot pinged and trilled as it handed Brandt an envelope. Casting a wary glance at Kirk, she opened it and found a credit for a store on the next block along with a note that read:

*Buy yourself something pretty.*


End file.
